Interview With the Joker
by Christine M. Greenleaf
Summary: Recording of an interview session with the Clown Prince of Crime. Written for and dedicated to Mark Hamill, the one and only Joker, on the occasion of his 62nd birthday.


**Interview With the Joker**

_Recorded September 25th, 12.08 PM_

You ever fallen sixty feet off a six-storey building onto a cold, hard street? I don't recommend it. You hit the ground and you hear a cracking before you feel anything. But you know the cracking isn't a good sound. And then you enjoy a few blissful moments of numbness before the overwhelming pain hits you. Like a bus. In fact, if you were hit by a bus, it would probably be less painful. The pain paralyzes you, or maybe it's the fact that your spine has just been shattered. Either way, there's nothing you can do but lie there and feel the blood seeping out from your body, and the blinding agony. There's nothing you can do about it, so you laugh.

At least, I do. It's just a natural response to the situation. I mean, it's happened to me a hundred times before. At least. Funny how I never die, or, y'know, end up permanently paralyzed. But I guess I've always been a lucky guy.

Yeah. I am a lucky guy. Oh, I know what you're thinking. How can a guy who got transformed into a crazy clown because of an accident be considered lucky? Well, I didn't die from that accident, did I? Nope. Fell a long way into a vat of dangerous chemicals, and made it out alive. I fall off a lotta stuff, I've just realized that. Well, I say fall – actually I was pushed. I've always been pushed. And always by the same guy. One of these days I should push him off something just so he knows how it feels. Or maybe just push him in front of a bus.

Anywho, yeah, made it out of the vat of chemicals alive. And worse things could have happened than me looking permanently like a clown. I could have lost my limbs, or got radiation poisoning or something. This little paint job ain't nothing to complain about.

Oh, and the whole crazy thing. But again, I ain't complaining. Nothing like madness to make life a whole lotta fun. You're better suited to face the world once you go crazy. See, it's a pretty crazy place, so the only guys who come out on top are the crazy ones. The world is our playground – we know it, we understand it, and we rule it. That's me and Batsy. I mean, I guess the other freaks try, but they're not even on our level. They haven't got the whole "world is crazy" joke, not like we have. At least, I think Batsy gets it. He ain't the brightest bulb in the shed sometimes, and his sense of humor leaves something to be desired. But I think he gets that joke. Why else would he dress up like a flying rodent every night and go fight crime? See, we're kindred spirits, Batsy and me. He gets off on doing good, I get off on killing people. But we're both just trying to pursue our passions.

My passion's comedy. I can't remember if it's always been that, or if that's something that happened to me because of the whole falling into the vat of crazy chemicals thing. But I can't really remember anything before that, so there's no point trying. Comedy, games, jokes, gags, you name it, I do it. Slapstick, mostly. People being hit, punched, kicked, exploded, mutilated, maimed, disfigured, disemboweled, it's all good. Pain is pretty funny. I guess that's why I laugh when I've fallen off the roof and I'm in agony. If someone were watching me when that happened, it would be quite the joke.

See, this is what people don't get about me. They think I'm a violent psychopath. And I am. A homicidal lunatic. And I am. But, y'know, they don't really get that what I ultimately am is a comedian. I make jokes. I'm the Joker – clue's in the name. The whole criminal thing, that's just a side gig. Well, a guy's gotta earn a living, and it's hard to live just by being funny. Not a lotta people pay you for jokes. Mostly they just steal them. They're the criminals, not me.

And I gotta admit, crime is a whole lotta fun. And it pays well, despite what you might hear. I mean, how much do you make as a shrink? Well, quadruple that, and that's the kinda dough we're talking about on the crime racket. That kinda dough minimum.

I mean, don't get me wrong, it ain't always the most glamorous lifestyle. And some days you don't have two nickels to rub together. But other days you're living like a king, days of joy and laughter and endless fun! See, I love the spontaneity of the whole thing. Well, there's no fun in a joke everyone knows the punchline to, is there? Jokes have gotta be random, unexpected, unpredictable. And I'm an unpredictable kinda guy, toots. And don't you dames just love a guy who's spontaneous?

Why is that, do you suppose? You'd think dames would like a guy who's steady and stable and dependable. Women always go on and on about how they like honesty and trust in a relationship, and men who are good providers. But I hear the Bat has got a whole host of female fans, and he's the most deceptive, and frankly flippant person I know. Commitment issues, y'know. Do you think it's because you women like being lied to? That you somehow find mystery and deceit exciting? I don't blame you if you do. God knows I'm nuts about Batsy. Yes, there's definitely something alluring about a mask.

We all wear masks, y'know. You, the Bat, the whole goddamn world. We're all dressed up for some silly costume party. Some stupid masquerade, and we wander from room to room, meeting other masked faces and greeting them as old friends. All my closest friends wear masks. See, masks conceal identities, but more than that, they conceal feelings. Robbers wear masks when they hit a joint, partially to conceal who they are, but also so they can pretend they're someone else, feeling different things. So they don't have to feel things like guilt and shame and remorse. Feelings are a pretty crummy burden, but I guess it comes from being human. Even the greatest psychopaths among us, myself included, feel things. Maybe not the same things exactly, and maybe not at the same times. I feel happy. See, everyone wears a mask, except me.

Everyone pretends to be sane. I don't. Everyone pretends they're in control. I don't. Everyone sees life as one big, serious drama. I don't. Life's a comedy. You gotta laugh. I mean, what else can you do?

See, the clown's always been the voice of reason. You know Shakespeare? Yeah, of course I read! What else is there to do in this dump of an asylum? There's a clown in_ King Lear_ who's the only sane voice in the whole goddamn play. The comic relief is the wise man. You wanna know why that is? Because the whole world's mad. And the clown is the only one crazy enough to see it. Crazy or brave, I guess.

That's Batman. He's a hero, I'll never deny that. Brave, the bravest guy I know, aside from me. Only cowardly in one way. Won't take off his mask. He's still scared, y'see. Scared of coming out and admitting to the world that he's seen it, naked and vulnerable and utterly mad. So he's a madman in a mask. A lotta them are. Scarecrow, Catwoman (mad _woman_, obviously, but madness isn't a gender issue.) Harley Quinn…

Oh, ain't I ever told you about Harley Quinn? It's just an idea I had for an associate of mine. Harlequin, like the clown, get it? Yeah. Anyway, the solo stand-up gig has been a riot, but there comes a time when a guy wants more, y'know? When a guy gets lonely. Oh yeah, I got feelings, like I said. I got henchguys and stuff, y'know, but no one I can really talk to. No one real I can come home to in the morning after a hard night's maiming. No number one fan to laugh at my jokes, except maybe the Bat. He's always been my biggest fan, and vice versa.

But y'know, a guy like me, with my looks and reputation – well, you don't really find the gals lining up. Still, it'd be nice to come home to somebody who really understands me. Not that many people do. Not that _anyone_ does, really. Well, I ain't the most honest of guys. Often I just make up stories for the shrinks. It's fun, y'know, reinventing myself every time I get a new doctor. It's like a choose-your-own-adventure story. Would you like Past Joker to have been a gangster or a comedian? A cop? How about a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick maker? I've even thought of telling the Docs I remember a previous life as a woman, just to let their little shrink brains work. They love a good puzzle with plenty to analyze. Well, who doesn't like an unsolved mystery? And frankly, the more psycho junk they invent to keep themselves occupied, the less they actually see me for who I am. Goes back to the mask thing. The best masks are in plain sight. And the best analysis is stating the obvious. The punchline is always set up in the joke. You can see it coming if you're good. Are you good, Doc? Do you get the joke yet?

The joke is there's no point in analyzing me. I am who I am. There's no hidden past you can uncover, no reason I'm the way I am. The answer's in plain view, smiling at you from my face. I'm the Joker. I exist because the world is a terrible, crazy, random, violent, homicidal joke, just like I am.

No, there's nothing underneath. There's no hidden depth to a joke. A joke is a joke is a joke. You hear it, you laugh, end of joke. You don't take the joke and analyze why it's funny, why it turned out the way it did. That kills the humor, and ruins it. I mean, you wouldn't wanna ruin me, toots, would ya? You wouldn't wanna do that?

You're a sweet kid, y'know, and I like you. And I really appreciate what you're trying to do, don't get me wrong. But you can't help me. Not like this, anyway. I can't be helped in this way, being talked to. I'm not really a chatty guy, unless I'm doing a routine, of course. And I never had much use for words unless you're using 'em to tell a joke. That's about all they're any good for.

I do need help, though. That thing I was telling you earlier, about that sidekick of mine, Harley Quinn. Yeah. I've thought about her for a long time. Imagined her real clearly, just as if she were sitting right in front of me, just like you are now. She's pretty. Real pretty. Like you, toots, blonde hair, big, blue eyes. Always liked a big eyed girl with baby blues. And she understands me, y'know? She ain't just a looker, she's a listener, a supporter, she loves my schemes and my plans, and she always encourages me. And she always laughs at my jokes. Ain't afraid to take a little pain from time to time neither. What a gal.

Yeah, I know, it's a pipe dream. And pretty pathetic, right? A guy like me, who's got everything, mooning over some dame who don't even exist, some dame he's just imagined in his head. But every guy's gotta have a perfect girl, even me. Even if it's only in his head.

Guess a gal like you can't know anything about that though, huh? Bet you got scores of admirers, guys fighting each other to date you, huh, sweets? No? You gotta be kidding me! That's a joke, right? Pretty thing like you…have all the guys in Gotham suddenly gone crazy? I hope not – couldn't deal with that kinda competition!

You got a pretty laugh too, sweets. Always said I'd kill for a girl with a pretty laugh. Anyone you want me to kill? Any of the doctors here giving you a hard time? They're just jealous, y'know. Jealous that you got dealt the royal flush – looks, brains, sense of humor – that's all you need to succeed in life, baby. Yeah, you're gonna go far, kid.

Anyway, you shouldn't waste your time shrinking. Certainly not me. It don't help me, or you. You deserve better than this, y'know, some dead end job trying futility to help the weirdos and the crazies. Dame like you should be out there, making a name for herself. Fate's got a real special name in store for you, I'm sure.

What, time's up already? You've made a clown unhappy, my dear, and that's no mean feat. I hope the interview was insightful anyway. I do tend to ramble on and on when people let me. But you're a good listener, kid. Not an interrogator like some of the other shrinks. I like a gal who listens.

Well, I hope we get to talk again soon. It was fun. Maybe sometime next week? Yeah, I really hope so too, Dr. Quinzel. Or can I call you Harley?


End file.
